Into the Woods
by amylisagirl
Summary: What would've happened if the show was set in Beacon Hills, MA, 1851? Follows the general storyline of Season One, with my own revisions for content and some alterations for the time period.
1. Prologue

_Prologue_

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," the man crooned, laughing quietly. "I don't bite." He laughed again, finding himself terribly amusing.

The girl shivered, covering her bare arms. It was a cold night, especially for August, and the trees had begun to turn colors that past week, coating the ground with yellow and orange leaves. At night, however, everything was too dark for her to see the bright colors. She closed her eyes, trying to breathe as quietly as she could.

"Where are you going to go?" he laughed, shaking his head. "There isn't anywhere to go! I'm going to find you! Do you hear that? I'm going to find you, my dear."

She opened her eyes, darting them back and forth, searching for a way out. She couldn't find one, however. It was the middle of the night, and she was stranded in the forest. Her lips mouthed the words to a silent prayer as tears slid down her cheeks. Of all the ways she'd ever pictured herself dying, this was not one of them.

He rounded the tree, towering above her crouched form. She closed her eyes, clutching her hands together, repeating the same phrase over and over. "Prayers don't scare me," he told her, grinning.

There was a flash of teeth, a spray of blood, and it was over.


	2. Chapter 1 - Search Party

**A/N: **This story is set in 1815. The content reflects this (i.e., the dress, the interactions with women). However, because I doubt anyone would be interested in 19th Century New England slang, it is written in the common vernacular, so it is easier to understand. Also, some of the names have been slightly changed for more historical accuracy (Daniel instead of Danny, and such).

* * *

"Scott! Hey, Scott!" Scott turned around, watching his best friend, Stiles, run after him, panting for breath. "I have news for you. It's kind of crazy."

"What is it?" he asked, continuing his walk down Beacon Hills' long bridge, staring at the slowly sinking sun. "Did Lydia show off her ankles today?"

Normally Stiles would've protested, talking about how chaste the young woman was and what a fine example to the community she'd always been, but instead, he just shook his head somberly. "Sarah Chamberlain is missing."

"Sarah?" Scott repeated, coming to a momentary stop. "That can't be. I saw her last night at the baker's, picking up bread. She was fine."

"Last night, she went into the woods, and she didn't come back out. Her father is worried sick. You know she's the only daughter he has who survived. He's determined to have her marry someone in Boston; make him rich through that." Stiles ran a hand through his short dark hair. "Nobody knows what happened to her."

"Does it have anything to do with the new family who moved into the Williamson's home last week?" Scott asked, looking down the river toward the large stone house near the mill. The Williamsons were a respected family who had lived in Beacon Hills for as long as he could remember, but the last surviving member, George Williamson IV, had died of old age two months ago. The house had been sitting empty until a horse and carriage had dropped off a significant number of belongings at the front door along with three mysterious residents.

"I don't know," Stiles admitted, watching the sun set over the mountains. It glistened over the still water for a moment before the light slowly withdrew, leaving the two friends in darkness. Scott saw the lampmaster hurrying to light the streets, his long torch gleaming as he caught wick after wick aflame, shuttering them inside small glass lanterns.

"They're certain to create a search group tonight. Look at the tavern." He nodded to the large building down the street, where the flickers of torches indicated the large number of people bustling inside. "The watch will find her, Stiles."

"Well, what if we found her first? We know these woods, Scott, we could do it." Stiles looked both excited and terrified by the idea.

"Stiles, I don't know. You know what they say about the forest at night…" Scott trailed off, watching them warily.

"The full moon isn't for another five days," he scoffed. "Don't tell me you really believe that."

"It's not that I _believe _it," Scott shrugged. "It's just… well, it can't hurt to be careful, can it?"

"Come on. Don't you want to be the _hero_, Scott?" Stiles asked, gesturing wildly with his hands. "If we found Sarah, then the attention we would get… we'd stop fighting just to say hello to girls and actually get to dance with them!"

Just as he was saying this, a young woman appeared on the other side of the bridge, walking past them to the tavern. She was wearing a large hoop skirt with intricate detailing on her lavender dress, and her strawberry blonde hair was tucked under a wide-brimmed hat decorated with lilacs. Taking her arm was a tall, striking young man, immaculately dressed as well, not looking at either of them.

"Hey, Lydia!" Stiles waved awkwardly, grinning at them. Scott refrained from rolling his eyes.

She didn't answer, but the young man did. "Don't you have somewhere to be, Stilinski? Haven't you heard that someone's missing? Are you going to the tavern, or are you standing around gossiping all night like my mother?"

"We were just discussing the search party, Jackson," Scott answered. "Lydia, what are you doing here? You're not going to search, are you?"

"No, of course not," she scoffed, her small hand going to her chest as though the very notion would give her a heart attack. "The young women are gathering together for a prayer circle for Sarah. Very unfortunate, what happened. We're all hoping for her safe return."

Everyone knew that Lydia had hated Sarah Chamberlain for the past seven years, when she told Daniel Mahers that Lydia had kissed someone behind the schoolhouse. The boy's secret identity had never been expounded upon, but it had always been a running joke amongst the boys not to leave Lydia alone behind the school. Scott seriously doubted that she wanted Sarah back very badly.

"We'll see you inside, then," Stiles nodded, but the two ignored him, continuing hurriedly down the bridge, whispering amongst themselves. "See what I mean?" he cried, turning back to Scott. "Lydia would have to talk to me if I found the missing girl."

"Lydia hates Sarah and she would probably hate you if you brought her back," Scott laughed. "But if you really want to go that badly, then we can go. I guess we should leave now before the rest of the men get there. The woods are pretty large."

Stiles immediately agreed, and the two took a quick pace back across the bridge, grabbing a torch from an errant pile next to the baker's. He opened one of the street lamps, unlatching the glass case and sticking the torch inside. He passed this to Scott once it was burning, then repeated the process with his own torch. Soon they were standing on the edge of the woods, both hesitant to enter.

"Are you sure you don't want to wait for the search party?" Scott asked, looking nervous.

Stiles looked as though he wanted to say yes, but he shook his head. "It'll sound more brave if we do it on our own." He took a step into the woods, and Scott followed quickly behind.

The trees were tall and dense, casting long shadows over the boys as they ventured deeper inside. Their feet crunched on pine needles and sank into piles of fallen maple and elm leaves as they slid over the thick layers of moss on the stones littering their path. "We should split up," Scott suggested. "We can cover more ground that way."

"But what if you find her without me? That's why we're out here, alone, by ourselves, without anyone else. So that I can look like a hero. I won't look like a hero if _you_ find Sarah."

"Don't worry. If I find her, I'll come get you before I do anything else," Scott assured him, laughing. "Even before I get the sheriff."

"Don't talk about my dad right now," Stiles warned. "He's going to kill me when he sees I'm not at the tavern for the search party, and the only way that I can make up for it is by finding Sarah."

"Okay! So let's find Sarah. I'll go West, and you go East. We'll find her soon enough, Stiles. Don't worry. Maybe she'll be so thankful she'll dance with you at the next church dinner." Stiles shoved him away, and the two parted ways, laughter still lingering on their lips as they traversed the somber ground alone.

Soon, the woods had swallowed them whole, leaving no indication that there had ever been another with them in the first place. Scott wasn't sure if it had been five minutes or twenty, but he still searched doggedly, calling out Sarah's name every few paces and waving his torch near the ground, looking for any signs that a young woman might have rested beneath a tree or fallen down a hill.

After some of time of this searching, he began to feel strange. There was an odd feeling running up and down his backbone, and a pit of unease resting in the bottom of his stomach. Feeling quite suddenly that he needed to know where Stiles was, he shouted his name loudly, spinning around, thrusting his torch about the heavy night air.

The sound echoed throughout the still woods, trapped in the circle of dense trees constraining Scott. He began to feel light-headed and short of breath; he had to leave the forest now. He began to jog towards the west, where he knew the Main Boston Road was, and a stretch of open land where he would be able to breathe again.

His pace grew quicker until he was practically sprinting, and his navigation must have gone poorly, for he was no closer to the road than he had been five minutes ago. Looking behind him through a gap in the canopy, he attempted to find the North Star, but, distracted, he fell, dropping his torch and gashing his knee. Swearing under his breath, he crawled over to pick up the now useless stick, cursing the wet leaves which had dampened the flame so quickly.

When he came to his feet, he checked his hands, astonished by the amount of blood on them. Surely he couldn't have that much just from the recent cut on his knee. He observed it as best he could by the starlight – it was small, above the knee, and steadily spouting a minute stream of blood. It wasn't enough, however, to have covered most of his left hand. Frowning, he checked the leaves in front of him. They were flecked with blood, some even saturated to the point of dripping.

His heart sinking, he pressed closer, spotting Sarah's bright blue eyes staring up dully at the dark web of trees. "Sarah?" he whispered, hesitant to investigate further. He was sorry that he did. Blood was sprayed over the thicket, covering the trees, the ground, and what was left of Sarah. Her entire throat had been ripped away, along with some of her upper torso. It was undeniably savage, and brutally inefficient. Claw marks dug deeply into her arms, as though whatever had done this was – _clinging_ – onto the limp body, gathering a better hold onto its victim.

Scott stumbled away, unable to keep control of his stomach, and vomited about five feet away from the body, which had begun to reek of decaying flesh. The thicket now, instead, smelled of what had formerly been roasted chicken and potatoes.

He knew he had promised to find Stiles first, but he doubted his friend wanted to be party to finding this horrific scene. Gathering up what remained of his courage, he gripped Sarah by her waist, where she was blessedly unmarred, and started to drag her west to the Main Road, where he could find help. Though she had been thin and willowy in life, death had seemingly doubled her weight.

Stumbling and barely managing to keep the remnants of his supper down, he inched his way back to civilization. He stopped in his tracks, however, when he heard the long, lone cry of a wolf. He had no doubt that it had been this wild beast to have ravaged the poor young woman, but he hadn't thought to bring a musket with him. It hadn't even occurred to him that he would find a corpse instead of a girl, much less the animal which had killed her.

Cursing again, he doubled his speed, determined not to leave her as food for the creature. He wanted her to be buried in the cemetery, not an empty casket with her bones lying somewhere in the middle of the woods. Sarah was a lot of things – untruthful, proud, vain; even stooping on occasion to theft from the general store when she didn't want to pay for her new fabrics. But none of that meant she deserved this; to die again, her body forever lost in the forest.

Something shifted in the brush to his right. Alarmed, he dropped Sarah's corpse, starting to attention at the sound. A pair of dark red eyed watched him, intent on his every action. He backed away a few steps, and the eyes followed, revealing some of the body attached. It was hideously large, the backbone hunched and misshapen, the muscles beneath the thick layer of fur rippling as it took step after step toward Scott.

Praying for forgiveness, he fled, attempting to reach the Main Road, where at least he would know the direction of home, where rifles sat above his bed and above the headboard of every respectable man in Beacon Hills. The beast followed, crashing through the brush with fury, inches behind Scott, seemingly desirous of making him his next piece of prey. It pounced, landing on his back, its claws digging into his sides. Scott cried out, clawing away to escape the crippling weight of the enormous monster, but he couldn't move.

Searing pain shot through his side, causing his entire body to writhe with pain. The wolf had bitten his abdomen, and was sure now to make him food just as it would do to Sarah. He reached out his hands, clawing at the detritus of the forest floor, wanting to reach the Road; it his only objective as his mind narrowed with the perceived certainty of death. Instead, the weight lifted, and he heard the beast dash off through the brush. He assumed one of the watch had scared it off, but when he stumbled to his feet, no one was near. It had left, strangely, of its own will. Gasping for air, he managed to make it to the Main Road, where he fell, the night stars fading away to blackness.


	3. Chapter 2 - Let's Hunt

**A/N: **Like I said previously, circumstances were much different 200 years ago, so several details in the story are thoroughly dissimilar to show canon – mainly concerning Melissa McCall and other women, whose rights were much lesser in 1815. Therefore, in order to maintain certain integral pieces of the story – Melissa McCall being a single mother, for example – there are a few changes you may be surprised by.

* * *

"Scott? Scott, wake up." The voice roused him from his stupor. He opened his eyes, expecting to see the night sky and the waning moon. Instead, he was lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring at a white ceiling flecked with dubious brown blotches. The sheets at his side were crisp and white, not stained by his ragged, bloody clothes. His mother and the sheriff were standing next to him, worried looks on their faces.

His mother's hair, normally tucked up underneath a plain straw bonnet, was wildly curly and sticking out from the hasty bun she'd tied at the back of her head. The sheriff looked weary, the wrinkles on his face deeper than they had every appeared to be. When she saw him stir, his mother let out a gasp of relief, gripping his hand tightly.

"What happened to you?" Sheriff Stilinski demanded, his face becoming red with frustration. "We found you bloody and passed out on the Main Road. What were you doing in the forest?"

"Is Stiles okay?" Scott groaned, attempting to come to a sitting position. Pain shot through his side, immediately forcing him to lie back down. His hand went to his abdomen, feeling for the bite. All he met were a bundle of packed linens wrapped tightly around his waist. It was not longer stiff with blood, so the bandages must have been freshly changed.

"Stiles is fine. We found him scouring the woods when we went out with the organized search party. What the hell possessed you two to go alone? A girl went missing in those woods, and you two think it's smart to split up and search by yourselves?" The sheriff looked more agitated than usual, likely because of the worry he felt for Scott.

"Stiles wanted to look like a hero for finding Sarah," Scott explained, momentarily forgetting what had happened. The realization hit him like a sudden blow to the chest. "Sheriff. Sheriff, there's something I have to tell you."

"Scott, what's wrong, sweetheart?" His mother asked, taking his hand and feeling his forehead. Though she wasn't a nurse, everyone in town knew she was far more capable than Dr. Sampson, who'd nearly killed Joan Hayes' daughter after she'd fallen out of a tree last summer.

"I found Sarah," he said, shaking his head at the optimistic surprise on the adults' faces. "I'm sorry. She- she was dead."

"Do you remember where you found her?" the sheriff asked, edging Mrs. McCall out of the way. "Can you take me to the body?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "She looked like she'd been attacked by a wild animal." He paused, remembering the wetness of the leaves and the heaviness of her small corpse. Most vividly, however, were the pair of glowing red eyes that appeared when he shut his own.

"You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," Mrs. McCall urged.

At the same time, Sheriff Stilinski said, "Tell me more, Scott."

"I don't know," he shrugged, wincing at the pain the simple action caused. "I remember I was trying to get to the Main Road, so it was in the western half of the woods for sure. I tried to drag her back there, but I had only gone a few minutes when it saw me."

"When what saw you?" Mrs. McCall asked, pushing the sheriff away to regain her place at Scott's side. "The thing that attacked you?"

He nodded. "It was huge. I thought it must be a wolf, since I heard it howl, but it didn't look like it. It was two times my size, with a hunched back, and grey fur. And its eyes were bright red."

The sheriff looked disappointed, leaning back against the wall. "Are you sure, Scott? I know that there are legends about those woods, but legends aren't real. Wolves' eyes are yellow, not red."

"It wasn't a legend," he insisted. "I saw something. The same thing that killed Sarah and tried to kill me. It's what bit my side. Look!" He lifted up the sheets, struggling to take off the bandages. His mother tried to calm him down, but he managed to peel them off. In shock, he stared at the smooth patch of skin covering his side. "It was just there," he muttered, shaking his head.

Mrs. McCall carefully removed them, showing dried blood covering his stomach, but no fresh wounds. "It must have been Sarah's blood he was covered in," the sheriff said quietly to Mrs. McCall.

"No, it wasn't," Scott insisted. "It was the wolf. It bit me, and it killed her."

"Scott, I believe that you found Sarah. I believe that there was blood everywhere, and you tried to carry her back to the Main Road. But I think you must have gotten startled, and panicked, and fell and hit your head on something by the Road. Wolves don't attack people at random, Scott. And they surely don't bite people and then run off for no reason."

"I know, but… I just could've sworn that there was a wolf. I know I saw it."

The sheriff sighed, looking at Mrs. McCall. "Well, since you're feeling better, why don't we see if we can go find that body. _With _some help this time, alright?"

Together he and Mrs. McCall helped Scott out of the bed and to his feet. He was wearing old, gray trousers, not the ones he'd come into the hospital with. He guessed they must have thrown them out, since they were covered in blood and dirt. As for a shirt, the sheriff grabbed him a large shift from the dresser next to them and tossed it to him.

"Where am I?" Scott asked, looking at the dark gothic wallpaper peeling in the small, windowless room. The chipped paper revealed a small drawing of a peacock missing everything but its head, the body covered by newer paper. It stared blankly at Scott, making him feel uncomfortable and eager to leave.

"It's Doctor Sampson's clinic," his mother told him, opening the door as they walked outside into the hall, leading him into the waiting room. The morning sun shone through the two large windows at the front of the building, lighting up the dust motes in the room coated in a continuous and fine layer of dirt. It was nearly empty, except for Stiles, chewing on his fingernails nervously while tapping his foot to an irregular beat.

"Scott!" he shouted, shooting up out of the uncomfortable wooden seat he'd spent the last hour in. "They wouldn't let me in to see you!"

"Because I don't want your partner in crime tainting your statement," the sheriff warned, frowning at his son. "Stiles, we're dropping by the house to grab some rifles. I want to be armed just in case that wolf is still out there."

"Wolf? What wolf? What are you talking about?" He stared at Scott, confused.

"I found Sarah," he said softly, looking at his feet.

"What?" He stood directly next to Scott, under the pretense of helping him walk, even though he was uninjured. "You said you'd find me before the sheriff, Scott," he hissed, nodding at his father.

"She was dead, Stiles," Scott whispered, shaking him off. "A wolf killed her and attacked me. We're going to go find it."

Silent and awestruck, Stiles was quiet as the party of four walked down the Main Road, avoiding the gaze of the people who stepped outside to watch them pass. Scott saw Lydia whispering to Katie Phillips, both of them fanning their faces from the hot morning sun, although they were standing underneath the overhang of the barber's shop. He was suddenly intensely aware of his half-dressed state, knowing he must look insane at best.

They hurried down the street back to their home. The sheriff and Mrs. McCall lived in a modest apartment above the sheriff's station, where she had moved in after her husband had died in the War five years ago. Mrs. McCall and Sheriff Stilinski were cousins, and he had kindly offered to take her in after the tragic loss.

They took the stairs out back, dodging the rows of potted herbs Melissa sold as an extra source of income to support herself and her son. Once inside, she unbuttoned her stiff collar, trying to catch a breeze in the stifling air of the apartment. "Be careful," she ordered. "I'm going to have some pies baking for the three of you when you get back. What would you like?"

"Apple," they all said in unison, knowing that Mrs. McCall's apple pies were the best in the town. With fall coming, they were finally coming back into harvesting season, and soon the streets would be filled with the smell of warm baking apples and puffs of cinnamon. She pulled on a worn apron, disappearing into the kitchen to begin her work.

Sheriff Stilinski pulled out his keys, unlocking the gun cabinet near the back door. He handed the two boys gleaming Sharps rifles, grabbing a large double barreled shotgun for himself. "If you see the wolf, you shoot first and ask questions later." The boys nodded eagerly. "But make sure it's the wolf, and not somebody's dog. Is that understood?" Again, the two young men agreed, checking their cartridges and their sights.

"Alright, sons. Let's hunt."


	4. Chapter 3 - The Wrong Road

**A/N: **Reviews and rates are beyond appreciated. Favorites will probably make me love you forever.

* * *

The sheriff had taken the two of them to the spot on the Main Road where they'd found Scott, bloody and unconscious. Scott guessed that if they made a straight line east, they'd come across Sarah's body, if not the wolf itself. However, they'd been walking for ten minutes now and still hadn't found a trace.

"Are you sure this was where you found me?" Scott asked the sheriff, scratching the back of his head in confusion and frustration, staring at the stretch of decaying leaves before him. "I know Sarah had only been about five minutes from the Main Road."

"This is where we found you," the sheriff replied, calling back to the two boys significantly behind him. "If you do think it was a wolf, it probably took Sarah's body as food for the pack. Our best hope is tracking it back to the den."

"I'm really hoping you know how to track wolves," Stiles shouted, birds stirring in the trees.

"My grandfather was a Mowhawk, son," Sheriff Stilinski sighed, turning around. "Step one: keep your voice down so the damned thing can't hear you from ten miles away." His son blushed, nodding with embarrassment. "Scott, what about you? What can you tell me?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but had nothing to say. He had no clue. Last night, everything had been in a state of disarray. Broken branches had littered the thicket, blood had been smeared everywhere, and there was a distinct drag line from where he'd tried to carry Sarah. Now, it all seemed as though nothing had happened here.

"I can't tell," he replied honestly. He'd tracked many a deer before with his father before he'd gone to Mexico, but deer were easy to find when they were being chased. The path they picked through had broken twigs with tufts of reddish hair, and their hoofs sank deeply into the moist ground. This scene of attack had been seemingly concealed by a master criminal. There wasn't any evidence.

Sheriff Stilinski continued ahead of them, Stiles struggling to catch up and Scott falling behind. Cursing his ineptitude, he struck at one of the trees with the butt of his rifle. A small branch splintered off where he'd slapped it, striking the back of his hand as he recoiled from the blow.

"Ow," he complained, picking out the shard of wood, wincing at the droplets of blood which sank down his hand and fell to the ground. Suddenly he was overpowered by a rich, coppery scent. It filled his nose, making him want to gag. "Can you smell that?" he asked Stiles, covering his mouth and nose. Still, the smell pervaded, making him feel light-headed.

"Smell what?" Stiles asked, pausing. "I can't smell anything."

"It smells like blood," he managed, taking a few deep breaths, the smell leaving him in a few moments. "Couldn't you smell that?"

"I couldn't smell anything," Stiles maintained, looking back at his father, who'd stopped to see what they were doing. "Was it Sarah?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly. The smell still lurked just under his nose, as though it was buried. "I can still smell it. Just a little bit." He sniffed delicately. There it was – a sharp tang, metallic in nature, mixed with a dull, musky, decaying smell. "There's blood under the leaves," he told them, staring at a small rowan tree, blooming with bushels of bright red berries.

He finally recognized it – it was the tree Sarah Chamberlain had been propped up against when she'd been found. "This is it," he said excitedly. "Sheriff, look underneath the leaves. Under that rowan tree. That's where I found her."

The sheriff stooped to his knees, shifting aside the wet leaves for almost thirty seconds, seemingly growing more and more irritated by the absence of any real evidence. "Are you sure?" Scott nodded, urging him to continue. For a few more seconds, he dug through them, until withdrawing his hands with a horrified expression on his face. The leaves were saturated with blood. It was the spot where Sarah had been murdered.

"You two, go back to town. Take the Main Road. I want you to get both of the deputies and tell them to meet me here immediately."

Stiles nodded. "And then what? Do we follow him? Are we coming with you? We're coming with you, right?"

"Hell no," he said gruffly, standing up and wiping his hands on his trousers. "You two are missing school right now."

"School can wait!" Stiles cried, exasperated.

"More importantly," the sheriff continued without pausing for his son's complaints, "when I brought the two of you out here, I wasn't sure if Scott was telling the truth or not. If he'd had a hallucination or something. But now, there's a dangerous beast out here. I don't want kids investigating it."

"We aren't kids," Stiles protested fiercely.

"You're sixteen years old, Stiles!" the sheriff shouted, becoming red in the face. "I'm not arguing with you! Take Scott with you, and go back to the town. You two need to go back to the school. I don't want you talking about what you found. Sarah Chamberlain had a little brother, and I don't want him to hear about his sister's death from gossip. Is that understood?"

They both nodded, Stiles still protesting about having to return to the school. Grudgingly, he trudged ahead of Scott, mumbling to himself about how unfair it was. Soon, they reached the Main Road. "What I don't understand," Scott finally said, his hands in his pockets as he stared at the bright blue sky, "is how it got covered up that well. Wolves can't do that."

"What _I _don't understand," Stiles countered, coming to a stop, "is how the hell you knew it was there."

"I recognized the tree," Scott told him, confused.

"No, you told me you could smell something, and then my dad dug up the blood. How did you do that?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I just did. It doesn't matter. The important thing is finding that wolf, and making sure it doesn't hurt anyone else."

"Alright, fine," Stiles sighed, shaking his head. "How did your super wolf manage to hide the body, Scott? Did he wish it away?"

"Maybe it wasn't a wolf," Scott said quietly, staring warily at the woods around him.

"Oh, right. It was the Big Bad Wolf, and Sarah Chamberlain just happened to be Little Red? What does that make you, Scott? The grandma, or the lumberjack?" Stiles laughed, pushing him forward as they continued to walk again.

"Seriously, Stiles. What I saw didn't look like a wolf. It looked like something else to me."

"Scott, maybe you hadn't noticed, but it's 1851, not 1692," Stiles told him, looking serious. "There's no such thing as werewolves. We don't hang people for being witches anymore."

"Well, what if it wasn't a wolf, or a werewolf?" Scott insisted. "Something killed Sarah, and something attacked me, and something hid the body. What if it wasn't some_thing_? What if it was some_one_?"

Stiles looked prepared to scoff at the idea, but at that very second, a young man stepped from the edge of the woods, blocking their path. Scott jumped back, startled and moderately terrified, reaching for the rifle on his back, and Stiles let out a wailing scream.

"Shut up," he ordered, his voice sounding as though he was sick with a cough and it was perpetually hoarse. "What's the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with you?" Stiles countered, finally snatching the rifle off of his back and managing to point it in the young man's general direction, although Scott had had his sights trained on him for the past forty five seconds.

"I just stepped out of the woods," the man argued. "You two are the ones who have guns pointed at me."

"Alright, we'll put down the guns if you tell us who you are," Scott replied, putting up one of his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Does that sound good to you?"

"My name is Derek Hale," he snapped. "And who are you two? You know you're on private property, don't you?"

"No, we're not," Stiles laughed. "This is the Main Road."

"You're in my driveway," Derek growled, pointing at the ground. It was bumpy and rocky, obviously not the smooth paved road they had been on. It was long and winding; they couldn't even see the house at the end.

"We must have accidentally turned off of the Main Road," Scott said hurriedly. "We're sorry, sir."

"What are your names?" he asked, staring at the two of them as though recalling their every detail for memory should he later need to kill them.

"My name's Jackson Whittemore," Stiles lied. "This is my friend Jim. We'll be leaving now, sorry to bother you, Mr. Hale." He spun on his heel, dragging Scott back to the Main Road. He turned back, trying to see Derek, sensing something off about him. However, he had already vanished.

"Talk about creepy," Stiles muttered. "Maybe he's the one who's killing people in the woods. You alright, Scott?"

He nodded, his mind not on his friend, who kept talking. He was thinking about the smell in the woods. It hadn't been normal; the blood had been under several inches of leaves and at least two feet away from him. Since when could he smell blood? And then, talking to Derek Hale, he _knew_ he felt that same strange sensation. He could _smell_ something, something that wasn't right with him. It was almost like he wasn't human.

He pulled his hand out of his pocket, staring at the back of it for a few seconds before realizing that the small scratch that had been there twenty minutes ago was now totally gone. Scott knew he'd always been a pretty fast healer, but not like this. It was as though there had never even been a trace of a cut. He pressed his fingers to his side again, remembering the night before. He was certain that he'd been bitten, that he'd felt the monster's teeth stick into him.

How could he have healed such a grievous wound overnight?

"Scott? Hey, Scott? Have you heard anything I've been saying?"

"Yeah," he lied. "I was just thinking. Sorry."

"Well, we'd better have a pretty good excuse for not being in class on time for Mr. Finstock. I for one do not want to deal with his wrath alone."

"Yeah, sure," Scott nodded, stopping before the bridge crossing. "I have to take care of something. I'll see you later." He wandered down the cobbled path toward the mill, ignoring his friend's wild protestations.

He kept his head down and his hands in his pockets as he wandered down the street, enjoying the breeze rippling through the fields of grain around him. He'd been walking for about three minutes when he abruptly stopped, and not of his own will. He'd stumbled into someone.

Blushing and apologizing, he backed away, only to be stunned into silence. A young woman was gathering wood from the ground, which had obviously only previously been in her arms. She was apologizing just as profusely, her cheeks bright red. She had long, curled dark hair, which swung loosely around her shoulders. Her gown was simple, without the crinoline Lydia and the women in town were always sporting, but it was obviously well-made.

"I'm Allison," he finally heard her say, as she came to her feet, the wood haphazard in her arms.

"I'm Scott," he stuttered, reaching out his arms to take the pile from her. "Do you want some help?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she replied, and he heard a distinct accent in her voice.

"You're new here, right?" he asked, staring at her longer than he should have. Her eyes were dark brown, but they sparkled like copper in the afternoon sun, and there were two small dimples in the smile just underneath the corners of her lips.

"My family and I just moved from Quebec," she responded. Now he could clearly make out the Quebecoise twang in her words.

"That's… cool," he managed, sounding like an idiot.

She laughed, unsure of the reply. "Thank you? I really should get back to putting this inside now. Nice to meet you, Scott. I'll see you around town, I'm sure."

"Yes. I'll see you." She laughed again, her hand giving a tiny wave of goodbye, so she wouldn't lose her firewood again. Her skirts swayed as she walked back into her enormous stone farmhouse. Shaking his head, he realized he really needed to get back to class. Mr. Finstock was going to kill him.


	5. Chapter 4 - Garcon Cheval

**A/N: **A few things this chapter: firstly, since this is a small town in the middle of nowhere, there isn't another lacrosse team for the boys to play against, so it's more of a pastime. Secondly, I tweaked the Hale past a little bit to better fit with the time period and the setting, so there's a few surprises when there's some discussion of the family. Finally, _Teen Wolf _states that the Hale fire happened about ten years ago, I'm putting it at eight. Get ready for kind of a long chapter, guys!

* * *

"McCall, I'm trying to listen to you. I really am. The problem is, every time you talk, all I hear is: 'Mr. Finstock, please: punch me in the face.'"

Scott sighed, picking up his stick and attempting the run again. Mr. Finstock always held a small lacrosse game after classes, which Scott normally enjoyed attending. However, today, his teacher was already angry at him, for being late, for not knowing any of the answers to his readings, and now, for his inadequacy on the lacrosse field behind the small schoolhouse.

Instead of an actual game today, the young men were just practicing some drills, overseen by their ever-present coach. Whenever someone was doing too well, he would start quizzing them about the capitals of the states or the history of the Bible, and throwing things at them were they incorrect or slow in their replies. Scott had, so far, not been put under this constraint, as he had been playing magnificently poorly.

He took a deep breath and stood in front of the small white ball, ready to charge the goal. Swooping it up, he dodged out of the way of Daniel Mahers, nearly making it to the net. Then, out of nowhere, Jackson Whittemore emerged, slamming into his side and bowling him to the ground with a sickening thud. The other boy jumped to his feet, victorious, and Scott heard someone cheering on the sidelines. Likely Lydia, who never missed an opportunity to remind people that her suitor was the richest, best-looking, and most athletic man in Beacon Hills.

Scott groaned, rolling to his feet and holding his head. They really needed to buy some helmets. Mr. Finstock was shouting at him, but he couldn't focus. He could hear an intolerably loud noise – birds cawing, at the top of their lungs, as though they were screaming bloody murder. He covered his ears, screwing his eyes shut, wondering why there birds swooping down on him. Stiles rushed over, helping him to his feet, staring at him and saying something.

"Are you alright, man?" Stiles asked, helping him off the field. Mr. Finstock was shooing them all away anyhow; it was time they return home and get changed for work. Scott looked up, surprised not to find crows circling his head.

"What was with those birds?" Scott asked, looking around, wondering why he was seemingly the only one affected.

"What birds? Did you crack your head when Jackson hit you?" Stiles rapped the back of Scott's head with his knuckles, which actually was sore. Scott jerked away, frowning.

He glanced back at the forest, watching a black cloud fluttering in the trees. That's when he realized – crows. It was a murder of crows, the same which he heard only moments before. But these crows were almost a mile away. How could he have heard their cry so amplified, when to everyone else, it was just a caw in the distance?

Stiles continued to speak as they walked home, nearly breaking a ceramic pot of rosemary on their way up the stairs. It bounced off of his shoe, wobbling dangerously before careening toward the ground. Scott ducked down, snatching it midair, his upper body hanging dangerously over the side.

"Alright, what is going on with you?" Stiles snapped. "You're being all weird about hearing and smelling things, and now you've got sudden cat-like reflexes? What happened in the woods?"

"I don't know," Scott replied honestly, setting down the plant carefully before stepping inside. The sheriff was back home, drinking a cup of coffee in the parlor. His boots were caked with mud and leaves, and he looked weary. His eyes opened when the boys stepped inside.

"Did you find Sarah?" Stiles asked, sitting down across from him, his fingers nervously tapping as he waited for an answer.

The sheriff nodded, his face grim. "She was just about how you said she'd look, Scott."

"That's it?" Stiles scoffed, looking between the two of them. "What about the investigation? What was it ruled? An accident?"

"I really can't discuss that," the sheriff protested weakly.

Mrs. McCall bustled in from the kitchen, a tray of biscuits in her hand. "Feet off of the coffee table," she ordered, and he immediately removed them. "And if you're going to bring dirty boots into the house, at least leave them by the door so I don't have to clean up after them." It might have been the sheriff's house, but everyone knew Melissa ran things.

He stood up, kicking off the muddy boots by the back door before settling down on the couch again, moving over to make room for Scott's mother. They all grabbed biscuits and looked at him expectantly, waiting for him to expound on what happened to Sarah.

"To be honest, I'm not sure what we're ruling it yet," the sheriff sighed, shaking his head. "They were… strange circumstances."

"Like what?" Mrs. McCall asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Well, the body, at first glance, appeared to just be mauled by a bear or a wolf or mountain lion, some wild animal. But the only time an animal attacks like that is if it's starving or rabid. But the body wasn't torn to pieces, like a rabid animal would have done, and it wasn't eaten, like it should have been if the creature was starving."

"I'm sorry I asked," Mrs. McCall sighed, shaking her head.

"What else?" Stiles demanded, leaning forward as though it would help him learn more information from his father's words.

"Well, as you two saw, the body was very thoroughly hidden and concealed, which definitely wasn't the work of animal." He paused, his eyes staring off into the space behind the two boys. "I think it could have been a murder."

"A murder?" Scott muttered, confused. He knew he'd seen a wolf – that much he was positive about. There was no way the body that he had seen was killed by a man.

"My best guess is that someone set their dog on her, but we're having a medical examiner come up from Boston," the sheriff sighed. "It's tragic. It's fucking tragic."

Scott and Stiles were silent as the sheriff abruptly stood and went into his room. The apartment was small, with a parlor, a kitchen, a bathroom, and three bedrooms, so the sheriff often didn't go into his room if he wanted time to himself, he just went outside. Stiles knew that he'd only gone into his bedroom to drink the half-finished bottle of Jack Daniels tucked behind his Bible on the shelf.

"Scott, you need to go to work," his mother told him quietly. She tossed him a leather apron, smiling sadly. "I'll see you tonight. You too, Stiles."

Stiles immediately left, obviously upset about his father. Scott paused at the door, turning to his mother. "Hey, Mom? Do you know anyone named Derek Hale?"

She looked alarmed, turning around to face him with worry in her dark brown eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Stiles and I met him today. We accidentally wandered onto his property. I was just wondering if you knew him. He just seemed a bit strange, that's all." He turned to leave, guessing his mother wouldn't say anything, but she cleared her throat softly, sitting down.

"The town doesn't talk about the Hales very much," Melissa admitted, looking ashamed.

"Why? What happened?" Scott took a seat next to her, grabbing a biscuit.

"The Hale family had lived here since the town was founded. I grew up around Talia and Peter Hale. She was a few years older, and he was a few years younger. Back then, girls didn't go to school, so I never saw Peter much, but Talia and I were friends. There weren't many young girls, so we would always sit together at church, and sewing circles, things like that." She paused, smiling faintly at her memories. "I remember Talia married some wanderer when she was pretty young. They had three children, two girls and a boy. They moved their fancy estate into the woods and I hardly saw Talia anymore. I know that a few years after their youngest girl was born, the father left them. I don't know if he went to fight, or if he just couldn't stop wandering.

"Talia wasn't really the same after that. I would never see her, and her children didn't come to the schoolhouse for lessons. Everyone sort of forgot they even lived here. The only glimpse you would see of them was their oldest daughter Laura, coming into town to pick up groceries. Then, the next thing we knew, there was horrible news." His mother subconsciously hugged her arms, as though cold, a haunted look in her eyes. "There had been a fire," she said quietly. "Talia was dead. Peter was burned beyond recognition. The little girl, Cora, she was maybe seven…

"They said it had been Indians," she said, shrugging as though she couldn't really say for sure. "Seven people were dead. Peter was the only survivor. Derek and Laura had been in Boston, picking up something for their mother. When they came back, they had no house to return to. You were only about seven or eight years old, and I couldn't take in two more children, even if they were the children of someone who used to be my friend."

Scott stopped the story, noticing that his mother was crying. "It's okay," he soothed, but she continued.

"I didn't know Derek was back in town, much less back at his parent's old home. I guess I'm just too ashamed to face him now." She buried her face in her hands, trying to forget the past. Scott gave her a quick hug, trying to comfort her. "It's alright, Scott, I'm fine," she insisted. "You should be going to work. I'll see you tonight."

He nodded, standing up and grabbing his apron. "And Scott?" He turned around to his mother, expectant for her to tell him she loved him or to have a good day. "Stay away from Derek Hale." Her face was unexpectedly hard, and her eyes bored into him until he nodded his assent. "Okay. I love you, son. Have a good day."

He quickly left, slinging the apron over his tunic, hurrying to make it to the stables on time. Unfortunately, Lydia spotted him walking down the street, and surprisingly stood up, calling for him to join her at the tables outside of Beacon Hills' only restaurant, the _Hills Café and Lodge_. "Lydia." He tipped his head, giving a small bow, since she was a gentlewoman and he always tried his best to polite. However, he very quickly proceeded to edge away to get to work.

"Please, sit," she insisted, nodding at the seat across from her. Her companion Katie had left when he'd arrived, though he wasn't sure why. Everyone knew Lydia and Jackson were courting and would probably be engaged in the next few years. It wasn't like Scott needed some private time with her.

"Can I help you?" he asked, chastening himself for his rudeness. "Miss Martin?"

"Oh, Scott, we've known each other for ten years. I think you can call me Lydia by this point." Scott nodded, as always, uncomfortable around her. For one thing, Lydia was outstandingly beautiful – like the kind of pretty you only see in advertisements in Boston. Everything about her seemed to be carefully sculpted, from the bow-shaped purse of her cherry pink lips to the swooping curve of her perfectly maintained eyebrows.

Scott had never felt any romantic attachment toward Lydia – Stiles would've killed him – but he'd always been a little bit uneasy of people who were too pretty to be regular people. And he also knew that Lydia could probably kill any chance he ever had of making something of himself with a few well-placed whispers. She was like a wolf in crinoline and roses.

"Can I help you, Lydia?" he rephrased, obviously nervous.

"I think you just might be able to, Scott," she smiled, picking up her ornate wooden carved fan and blowing it delicately. She'd never lost her Southern belle accent, even though she'd lived in Massachusetts for ten years. Scott suspected her heart still lied in the Georgia plantations she'd come from when she was only six years old. "I hear they found Sarah Chamberlain with God, may He have mercy on her soul."

Scott nodded.

"I also heard that you were the one who found her in the woods."

Scott grew increasingly more nervous, glancing at the clock in the window of the restaurant. "Sheriff Stilinski found her."

"Well he's your caretaker, surely you must have heard something about it?"

"I really don't know Lydia, and I'm sorry, but I'm late for work." He stood up, bowing clumsily again.

"That's fine, Scott," Lydia smiled, though her eyes glittered with poison. "Just remember I don't take too kindly to people not sharing their secrets."

"I'll tell you at the dance tomorrow night, Lydia," Scott whispered, leaning down to kiss her pale, fair hand. "I'm late for work, I have to go."

He hurried away, nearly running to the stables, hoping the doctor wouldn't be too upset with him for being almost fifteen minutes late now. He scrambled inside, petting the horses to calm them down. "Would you care to tell me why you're late, Scott?"

He deflated, turning to see his boss, one eyebrow raised, staring at him expectantly. Dr. Deaton was not an exceptionally tall man, but he had a way of staring down at Scott even when he had to look up to do it. "I'm so sorry, Doctor," he apologized, blushing. "It's my fault. I was speaking with my mother, and then Lydia Martin wanted to ask me something-"

"Ah, Miss Martin," he smiled. "Say no more. I understand gentlemen are often late when circumstances involve her."

"No, it wasn't like that-"

"It's fine, Scott. I'm not going to kill you for being late one time. Try not to make a habit of being detained by Miss Martin, alright?" Scott knew that the doctor and Lydia's family had no love for each other. They were former slave owners from the South, who had only come North after a drought had killed all of their cotton plants. Deaton was a freedman who'd spent fifteen years of his life working in his master's stables. Doctor was a purely honorary title.

"Thank you," he said quickly, thinking he likely shouldn't have mentioned Lydia at all.

"Now for the more important business," Deaton continued, glossing over the tension quickly. "I'm going to Boston to pick up a supply of shoes and bridles. I need you to watch over the stables tonight. You know everything that needs to be done. Horses fed, walked, and brushed-"

"Stalls mucked, hallways swept, and tack cleaned," Scott grinned. "I may be late, but I still have some idea of what I'm doing."

Deaton smiled, patting him on the back. He took the reins of his personal horse, Lola, and mounted her, checking all of the straps and his saddle pack to make sure they were tight. "I'll be back tomorrow. Make sure we're locked up tight, Scott. If a horse goes missing, you're the one on the line."

He nodded, and the doctor took off for the Main Road, leaving Scott to take care of his chores. In reality, he greatly enjoyed his job. The menial labor didn't feel demeaning to him; it felt good to work hard and take care of another creature. He usually lost track of time whenever he was working with them, and always stayed later than he meant to helping the doctor with something around the stables.

Tonight, he hadn't even noticed the sun start to sink. The only reason he noticed the time at all was a sharp knock on the barn doors. He hurried over, thinking it must be Deaton, but it was the new girl, Allison. It was pouring rain outside and she was soaked to the bone. She was struggling with carrying a large dog, the same one he'd seen on the farm the other day.

Scott immediately took the animal from her, urging her inside. She looked like she might be crying, but it was hard to tell since her face was soaked from the rain. "What are you doing here?" he asked, taking the dog into an empty stall and setting it down on a fresh bed of hay. She was definitely crying.

"I was taking a walk with Fabièn, and it started to storm, and he got frightened, and he fell, and I heard the doctor here wasn't very good, so I thought maybe the stables could help, and I just didn't know what to do." She began to sob again, covering her face with her hands.

"It's okay," Scott said awkwardly, putting his hand on her upper arm comfortingly. "I'll see what I can do for him." He knelt down in the hay, gently stroking the dog's coarse brown fur. It wouldn't win any beauty contests, that was sure – the dog was the very definition of a mutt. But by Allison's hiccupping sobs, the animal obviously was important to her. His leg was at a crooked angle, and he looked at Scott with baleful blue eyes.

"He's just hurt his leg. He'll be absolutely fine, Allison." He stared at her nervously, not sure what else to say. She was wearing a light travelling coat, and underneath, a simple gray dress, both of which were torn and dripping water. Her petticoat was covered in mud, and so were her boots. "Your dress is ruined," he noted.

"I know," she sighed, taking a seat on a bench he hadn't cleaned yet. "My mother will kill me for it. I always ruin them some way or another. She insists I look respectable, even though I work on a farm."

Scott smiled, and so did she, briefly, letting out another small hiccup. "Thank you for helping Fabièn. I'm sorry to be a bother."

"Oh, no, you aren't at all," Scott insisted. He grabbed a piece of wood and cloth bandages. "I can't set his leg right now, but I can put it in a splint until the doctor gets back. He'll fix it for you." She nodded gratefully, standing up to fetch the dog again.

"You know, my mother has some herbs that I'm sure would help with the pain," Scott blurted, not sure he was crossing a line of propriety. Who knew what the laws of civility were in Canada? "And I'm sure you could borrow some clean clothes to walk home in."

"Oh, I couldn't," Allison blushed.

"Are you sure? I'm sure Fabièn might appreciate something. His leg will start hurting pretty badly within the hour after the adrenaline wears off." Allison looked unsure. "You don't have to come inside if you don't want to. You can always wait in the rain if you feel that would be more proper."

She laughed, her eyes crinkling up into little crescent moons. "I think I might be able to come inside," she smiled, and Scott picked up the dog carefully, both of them soaked by the pouring rain, as well as Allison.

It was a tricky climb up the stairs, but he let Allison go first, so that if he fell, she wouldn't be knocked down too. His mother opened the door, obviously shocked. "Scott. Who's your friend?"

"This is Allison," Scott explained, bringing the dog into the small apartment. "Her dog fell and broke his leg and I was wondering if you could get him something for the pain."

His mother glared at him, in a silent _you're going to be cleaning up all of this mess later _sort of look. "Sure, Scott. Stiles, would you bring our guest some new clothes while I get her dog something for his leg?" Stiles appeared from his and Scott's room, wondering who he was getting clothes for. His jaw dropped when he saw a pretty young woman in the parlor, observing the gun cabinet.

_She came with you? _he mouthed, pointing at Allison.

Scott nodded furiously, urging him to go and get the clothes. Stiles winked, giving him a thumbs up, and disappeared into Mrs. McCall's room. "I didn't know your father was the sheriff," she said casually, looking at the badge on the coffee table.

"Oh, he's not my father. He's my first cousin, once removed, or something like that. He's my mom's cousin," Scott clarified, while Stiles came into the parlor with a bundle of freshly laundered clothes.

"Fresh dresses for a beautiful lady," he grinned, handing her the pile. She blushed, nodding thank you. "You can change in that room right there," he told her, pointing to Mrs. McCall's bedroom. She disappeared, leaving Scott and Stiles alone with the dog, who was panting loudly.

"Whatever kind of deal with the devil you made, I want it," Stiles hissed under his breath.

"She just came because her dog's hurt," Scott insisted.

"When you come around to your senses, show me the contract." Stiles slid away into his room, shaking his head in a mixture of disbelief and anger.

Allison soon reappeared, looking slightly relieved Stiles wasn't in the parlor anymore. Melissa soon appeared, a bundle of herbs in her hands. "Alright, I want you to give him a little bit of this mixed into his food for the next week," she ordered, handing them to Scott. "About a tablespoon, crushed, should do the trick."

"How much?" Allison asked, reaching in the pile of clothes.

"Oh, no need to pay," his mother smiled, looking friendly. He knew the cost would come out of his salary instead. "Consider it a welcome to town gift from the sheriff's family."

She smiled graciously, and Scott was ordered to carry the dog back to the farm. They were quiet most of the way, and this time had an umbrella so they wouldn't all get soaked. Just as they were approaching, an idea came to him. "So, there's a dance at the church tomorrow night," he stammered as Allison opened the wooden gate for him. "And I was just wondering if I could have the honor of escorting you there."

"That sounds wonderful," she replied, beaming. "Thank you, Scott." He placed the dog in his bed in the stables, leading her to the door.

"Hopefully I'll get to see more of you when I'm not soaked and covered in horse dirt," Scott said bashfully, and she smiled again.

"I would love that," she promised him. "_Bonne nuit, garçon cheval_." He wasn't sure if he should kiss her hand, like Lydia, or just bow, but before he could choose one way or another, she stepped inside, closing the door.

He started the walk back home, daydreaming about the next night. He was about to mount the stairs when he cursed, realizing he hadn't locked up the stables. He raced back, desperately hoping there were no missing horses.


	6. Chapter 5 - Interrogations

**A/N: **I always had a problem with Season One Lydia. It's sort of hard for me to accept the show's change from the bratty girl in the first season to the badass awesome woman she is now. Therefore, I humbly beg of my readers to accept my characterization changes in Lydia. I'd like to think she was a badass all along.

* * *

Beacon Hills wasn't an exceptionally large town, though it was inhabited by a large number of young people. As their natures would dictate, young people socialized at every avenue they could think of. Therefore, the Beacon Hills Church of Christ was often coerced into hosting 'Dances for God' each Saturday night.

Scott wasn't particularly fond of church – he always had difficulty staying awake during Reverend Pascal's long sermons. Stiles could hardly sit still through them. He usually went to the bathroom at least four times, unable to control his tapping feet and hands in the quiet church. Of course, Lydia was always seen with a bowed head and a small smile on her lips, as though she were filled with the Spirit Itself during the sermons.

However, every teenager in town was more than happy to attend the five minute preaching the reverend insisted on having every Saturday (to make it a Dance for God and not just a dance)for the hours of dancing afterwards. Scott had spent about twenty minutes getting ready, combing his hair with the little bit of wax his mother saved for special occasions. Stiles didn't need any, since he insisted on maintaining his short hair 'for hygienic purposes'. Scott believed he just enjoyed rebelling against the standards of the time. Both of them, however, had to help the other with their cravats and tails of their coats. Scott tried vainly to make something from the wisps of hair on his chin and upper lip, but decided on shaving instead.

Everyone attending brought something to the dance, be it lemonade, pie, or roast, and Stiles volunteered to take enough apple pie for both of them so it wouldn't get cold while he picked up Allison. He would've taken his horse, but he wasn't sure if Allison would be able to ride it in her evening gown. Thankfully, it wasn't raining that night, so when he arrived at her home at six fifteen, he was dry and miraculously clean – a condition in which she'd never seen him.

The dog hobbled over to him as he walked up the dirt road, licking his hand with gratitude. Normally dogs didn't really like him, but this one seemed to be almost subservient. He wagged his tail half-heartedly, as though unsure how Scott would react. Scott knelt down, carefully not to muddy his knees, and scratched the dog behind its ears. Excited, it placed its paws on his shoulders, lapping his face. Scott fell backwards, landing, thankfully, in grass instead of dirt.

This was the moment when Allison stepped outside, to find Fabièn hurriedly cleaning Scott's face as well as licking some of the wax out of his hair. She laughed, making Scott scramble to his feet. The dog raced off as though Scott had yelled at it. He cleaned off his trousers quickly, not looking up, muttering an apology under his breath. Allison swept down the stairs, placing a hand on his arm. "You're fine," she insisted, smiling.

His breath was taken away for a moment as he stared at her. She was wearing a cream gown like nothing he'd ever seen. Dried rose buds were woven into the dipped neckline with elaborate but understated embroidery. The skirts had no frills of lace, and a modest crinoline, and unlike the gowns in Beacon Hills, had a long train which she had draped over her forearm. Her hair was decorated with bright white and yellow flowers, which Scott knew not the names of.

"You look lovely," he stammered, taking her arm and leading her to the bridge. Even with her gown, she still maintained a long stride.

"Thank you," she replied, looking almost embarrassed. Scott wondered if she was ashamed to be with someone who looked like him when she looked like a princess.

"I've never taken the prettiest girl in town to a dance before, so just tell me if I'm doing something wrong," he told her, taking a left, joining some of the other couples as they streamed toward the large church at the end of the road. It was the most beautiful building in town, and one of the oldest, other than some of the outlying farms like Allison's house. It was wooden, painted white every year to keep the color fresh, with bright red shutters on the front windows. The steeple was the loveliest part, long and pointed with a bell inside that rang each night at midnight.

"I think you're alright so far," she laughed, though he felt her grip his arm a little bit tighter as though she was nervous.

"A dance is the perfect place to meet everyone in town," he assured her. "I'm sure that everyone here will love you, Allison."

"I hope so," she muttered, not making eye contact with the other girls who were staring at her. Together they stepped inside the chapel, immediately surrounded by the other young people who had come to dance. The tables of food were on the left wall, quickly filling up with ice cold tea and lemonade, succulent roasts and crisp vegetables, and, of course, sweet-smelling pies.

They all stood expectantly at the front of the church, waiting for the reverend. The pews were pushed to the sides of the walls, leaving the middle of the large building open for dancing. Once the dance had officially started at six thirty, Reverend Pascal began to speak.

"Welcome, young gentlemen and ladies," he began, droning on the rest of predictable sermon about chastity and duty, which was basically just a reminder for the men to keep their hands on a lady's waist, and not anywhere else. As soon as he was finished, the reverend scurried out of the back exit, and the church musicians took up a rousing tune, leaving the young people hurrying to find a dance partner.

Scott and Allison backed away rather than be sucked into the gathering crowd, both standing awkwardly for a few moments as they watched the shimmering crowd.

"Would you rather eat or dance?" he finally asked. "I have to admit I'm always kind of shy to just jump into the dance."

"Oh, that's great," she sighed, relieved. "I am, too. I can smell the best apple pie right now."

They drifted over to the table, Allison grabbing a plate and a knife to cut the pie, when the dance ended, and the partners dispersed until the next song. "_Who_ are _you_?" Lydia asked, sweeping up next to her, grinning widely. As usual, she was wearing her gigantic hoop skirt decorated with flowers, pearls, and lace, and her hair was curled over one shoulder.

Allison nearly dropped the knife, she was so startled. Lydia was still smiling sweetly, admiring her gown. "Oh, where are my manners?" she laughed gaily, touching Allison's arm as though they'd been friends for their entire lives. "My name is Lydia Martin."

"I'm Allison Argent," she replied, giving a slight curtsy.

"Are you from Paris?" Lydia gasped, forgetting all measures of decorum.

"No, I'm from Quebec," she answered, looking worried. "My dress is from Paris, though. A Frenchman designed it for us in the city."

"You are my new best friend," Lydia declared, taking her arm and leading her away before glancing back at Scott. "Oh, Scott. I'll talk to you about that little issue later, right?" He nodded, and Allison looked back at him helplessly, though he could tell she was happy by the small smile lingering on her lips as Lydia dragged her away onto the middle of the floor.

Stiles appeared next to him, grabbing an apple and taking a bite, leaning against the table and surveying the crowd. "How is it that Allison is already part of Lydia's clique after thirty seconds, when I've been trying to do that for eight years?" he sighed, chewing mournfully.

"Do you have a ballgown from Paris?" Scott asked, smiling as he grabbed a glass of lemonade.

"I can get one if that's what it takes," he said quickly. "Is that what I need?"

"Somehow I doubt that Lydia would fall over you if you started wearing Parisian dresses," Scott confessed, shrugging. "You can try if you think it might work, though, Stiles. I'll be your friend even if you're the town outcast."

"Oh, you already drag me down enough," he grumbled, throwing the half-eaten apple into trash. "I can't stand around here like a loser. I've got to find someone to dance with right now. Hey, Katie!" He waved, following her even though she was quickly walking away.

Scott laughed, finishing the lemonade and searching for a girl to dance with. Before he could, however, he spotted a young man dressed in all black, his face somber as he watched the swirling, laughing crowd. It was Ben Chamberlain, Sarah's little brother. Scott hurried over, not sure why he did.

"Ben!" he called, getting his attention. The man didn't stand, however, he just stared at Scott with the same frown on his face.

"Scott," he replied, nodding. "I thank you for your sympathies."

"I actually was wondering if we could talk about Sarah," Scott said delicately, taking a seat next to him, unsure if Ben would even speak to him.

"Ah, yes," he laughed quietly, though the sound had no warmth. "I'd heard the rumors that you were the one who found her. You are the sheriff's relative, after all, I'm sure you have questions for me. I'm happy to answer them if you'll answer mine."

"I'm not trying to interrogate you, Ben," Scott assured him. "Just talk."

"Sarah used to love these dances," he said, a nostalgic smile appearing on his face for a moment. "She would spend hours getting ready. She used to try to dance with you most of the time, did you know that? Up until about a few weeks ago."

Scott blushed, now completely uncomfortable as they were talking about a dead girl's former crush on him. Something about the remark peaked his interest, however. "What changed a few weeks ago?" he asked, leaning a bit closer.

"She stopped coming to the dances," he shrugged. "She never talked about the boys in town anymore like she had always done. She didn't even talk about how much she disliked Lydia." He frowned, thinking about it. "I asked her about it one day, and she told me I had to promise to keep it a secret. She said she'd met someone else. Not somebody in town. She was going to marry him, but if Father found out, he would've broken it off. You know how he is."

Scott nodded, intrigued. "Thanks, Ben," he said, standing. To his surprise, the young man stood as well, gripping his shoulder.

"You have to give me some answers now, Scott," he said forcefully. "What happened to my sister?"

"It was an accident, Ben," he lied. "She got lost in the woods, and she hit her head, and an animal got her. There was nothing you could have done to stop it."

He nodded, but his eyes were staring far away at nothing. "Thanks, Scott," he mumbled, nodding vaguely. He walked off, reaching into his pocket for a silver flask and stumbling out of the door, grabbing his head. Scott was about to go check on him when he felt someone's hand on his arm.

"Scott, I think it's time we discuss," Lydia told him, leading him away. She ducked into a side room, a little parlor where the pastor would meet with his congregants. Tonight, however, it was empty. She sat down in a plush clawed chair, leaving the chaise to Scott. "You were talking to Ben Chamberlain," she noted, staring at him accusingly.

"Yeah," he shrugged. "Why does that matter?"

"I need you to tell me what happened to Sarah, Scott."

"I really don't know, Lydia. I found her, that's it." He didn't want to tell Lydia what he knew, afraid she'd share it with the whole town.

"Scott, I need you to understand something," she said, as her face grew hard. "I don't keep my position in this town for free. If I don't know everything that's going on in this town, then I lose my position. And I quite enjoy where I am right now. I do not like stupid boys who don't know what's best for them. I like men who tell me what I need. Which are you, Scott?"

"I just don't want everyone knowing about Sarah," he pleaded. "She's just died, Lydia. It doesn't seem right."

"You don't seem to understand me," she sighed, her eyes narrowing. "If I tell everyone, then I no longer have the advantage. I have all of the information. That's the point of this, Scott. Not so I can gossip with Katie Phillips."

"Alright, alright, Lydia," he relented. "I found Sarah about ten minutes from the road. She was all bloody. Something tore at her. A wolf or something."

She interrupted him. "What was she wearing?" she asked.

"What?"

"Her dress. What did it look like?" She looked as though this were very important.

Scott shut his eyes, trying to remember. "It was brown," he said. "At least I think it was, because it was so dark. She had her hair in a bonnet, but not with flowers or anything, just a plain straw one. It looked like she had a heavy overcoat. That's all I remember."

"It was travelling wear," Lydia supplied. "That's what you're thinking of. She was going somewhere. She didn't get lost in the woods. She was meeting someone there."

"Ben said she'd met a man," Scott volunteered.

"Peter," Lydia informed him. "Someone older. Do you think he did this?"

"I don't know." He was momentarily taken aback, not realizing that Lydia meant it when she said she liked to have all of the information. "The coroner's going to be coming up from Boston to investigate it. The sheriff thinks it was murder."

"Good, because I'm sure that it was," Lydia told him, standing. "Get me that report as soon as you have it, Scott," she ordered, walking toward the door. She smiled one last time, and he could see the change in her immediately. She went from a serious, harsh investigator to a confident, air-headed debutante with one smile. With a flounce of her skirts, she slipped outside, leaving Scott to consider his new found respect for Beacon Hills' most infamous beauty queen.


	7. Chapter 6 - Hunted

**A/N: **So, in Chapter One, I definitely said _five _days until the full moon and it's only been three. Sorry about that error, folks!

* * *

Scott wasn't really sure what he was doing in the woods.

He'd been sitting in the parlor, thinking about Lydia and Sarah, and then, he was standing in front of the rowan tree where he'd found Sarah's body. He looked up at the moon, a chill in his spine. It was huge, glowing white, and without a doubt, full. He wasn't superstitious – after all, it was 1851. There was no such thing as werewolves or witches or ghosts. Although he wasn't too sure about his position on ghosts.

His stomach twisted inside out, and he felt as though he would be sick. He staggered over to a nearby tree, sitting down beneath it. His head felt as though it would burst into a million pieces, and his vision was so blurred he couldn't see anything. He started to shake violently, and began to hallucinate – his fingernails grew into ragged brown claws, his cheeks sprouted hair where he was sure none had been before.

He cried out in pain, but it was more of an echoing howl that resounded through the densely packed trees and rolled over the distant mountains. His jaws felt heavy, as though his teeth had suddenly become too much for him to carry. "What's happening to me?" he slurred, falling to the ground, the world spinning.

"You're changing," someone told him, a disembodied voice which seemed to float toward him from thousands of miles away. "Come with me, Jim. We need to get you somewhere safe."

"Jim?" he muttered, stumbling to his knees. A large, familiar shape was in front of him, menacing in theory but emanating a feeling of protection.

"It's Derek Hale," he said, kneeling in the wet leaves and staring at Scott's face. "We met the other day. You're the werewolf that the Alpha turned, Jim. I smelled it on you yesterday morning."

"No such thing," Scott breathed, falling over again, his head seeming to cleave in half. He could, simultaneously, see everything in the sharpest, most vivid detail he could have never imagined, and see nothing but blurs. "I can't see," he told the man in front of him, covering his eyes.

"It's your body trying to react to the bite," Derek told him, helping him to his feet and putting his arm around his neck, helping him to walk. "It should take a few minutes, but we don't have the time. You shouldn't have told them where you were."

"Told who?" Scott asked, the world starting to fall back into place. His jaw felt heavy, and his hands misshapen, but he could now successfully put one foot in front of the other.

"The hunters," Derek whispered. "Shut up, Jim, you'll get us both killed."

_My name's not Jim,_ Scott thought, as Derek dragged him quickly through the thick foliage, his face getting slapped by tree branches. Derek suddenly stopped, sniffing the air. "Close your eyes!" he shouted, dropping to the ground. Scott, disoriented, stumbled forward, but before he could drop, a blinding light exploded in front of him, causing his mind-numbing headache to return.

Running blindly, he lurched forward, colliding into a large tree. He put his back to it, hoping to hide, but he wasn't sure where the hunters were coming from. He felt something pierce his arm to the tree, and he cried out in pain, blinking furiously as his vision returned.

He could make out three distinct shapes, but none of them were Derek. The man in the lead was in his mid forties, with a scraggly beard and short hair like Stiles. Even though it was dark, he could clearly make out a pair of dark green eyes which seemed, at their heart, to be thoughtful and cautious, but were covered by an intense and all-encompassing sense of instinct.

Scott struggled as the man advanced forward, his eyes telling him that the man had only the thought of battle in his mind. Suddenly, the man on his right disappeared, a cry fading through the woods. The leader spun, his crossbow drawn, but he wasn't fast enough, as the man on the left vanished as well. The leader swore under his breath, aiming his bow. Scott felt the arrow in his arm break as Derek freed him from the tree and began to race toward the North.

He expected his arm to be gushing blood, but he could hardly feel it as they raced at break-neck speed through the maze of trees. Finally they stopped, Scott struggling for breath. "Who were those people? Why did they want to kill us? What's happening to me?"

"Those were hunters, and they want to kill us because both you and I are werewolves," Derek said blatantly, without trying to hide or sugarcoat the fact. "What's your real name? I could tell that your friend was lying about it, but I didn't know what to call you back there."

"Scott," he replied. "Scott McCall." He sat down, his head in his hands. "I'm a werewolf?" Derek nodded. "And you're a werewolf?" He nodded again. "Are you the one who made me a werewolf?"

Derek sighed. "No, I didn't do it, Scott."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know," Derek snapped. "All I can tell you is that if you keep acting like an idiot, even I won't be able to help you."

"Why would you want to help me?" he asked miserably, curling his knees against his chest. "You're a werewolf. You're a monster."

"I'm not a monster, and neither are you. The bite is a gift, Scott. Accept it. You can't change it."

"Maybe I should just let the hunters kill me," he muttered. "I'm not natural, Derek, and neither are you. What we are shouldn't exist."

"Well, we do exist, Scott." Derek seemed as though he wanted to slap Scott in the face, but he was controlling it. "I was born this way. You had no choice over what happened to you. Does that mean you deserve to die?"

"I don't know," he said honestly.

"I'm going to look out for you, Scott," Derek told him, kneeling down next to him and grasping his shoulders. "You and me, we're brothers now."

Scott called out for him to wait, but he disappeared, his form dissipating in the thick fog that was beginning to grow. Wondering what was going on, and desperately hoping it was just a bad dream, he staggered back to the Main Road, and back into the town lines.

Although his mother and the sheriff had gone to bed, Stiles was waiting for him in the parlor, a candle burning slowly in front of him as he read a thick, heavy book. "Scott, where did you go?" Stiles demanded. "I have to tell you something, like, right now."

"I'm a werewolf," Scott told him hopelessly, falling into the chair behind him.

"You're a werewolf, Scott," Stiles said at the same time, as though he hadn't been anticipating his best friend to speak. "Wait, what? You knew?"

"Not until tonight," he said. "I was in the church, and then I was in the woods, in front of Sarah's body. I don't know how I got there, but the next thing I knew, Derek Hale was there, and then someone was shooting at me, and it's all a bit of a blur."

"Derek Hale? I knew he was part of it, I could just feel it, you know? Is he a werewolf, too? Is he the lead werewolf? How many of you are there?"

"I don't know, Stiles," Scott groaned. "I don't know what's happening to me, I don't know if this is even real, and I just want to go to bed." He thought about the prospect before groaning hopelessly. "Stiles, Allison is going to hate me."

"I escorted her back home and told her you had gotten hopelessly ill and were receiving care from your mother. I figured out what happened when I realized it was the full moon. I'd just been guessing before, but that made me sure of it."

"So she doesn't hate me?" Scott asked hopefully.

"Scott, are you listening to what's going on?" Stiles demanded. "In case this fact flew past you, you're a werewolf now, and there are people out there who are trying to kill you. I think she's a bit low on your list of priorities right now. You met her two days ago."

"I know, I know," Scott sighed, yawning. "I'm so tired. Can this werewolf stuff wait until tomorrow, Stiles?"

"Wha- Scott, no. You got bit by a werewolf that killed Sarah Chamberlain. Why didn't it kill you, too? And is Derek someone you can trust? And what's going to happen on the next full moon? Scott this stuff is important, and you're-"

"Peter," he said, staring at Stiles as though that explained everything.

"What? Who's Peter, is that another werewolf?"

"Peter is the name of the man that Sarah was going to meet when she died, Stiles," Scott told him, everything starting to come together. "It was murder, but not like your dad thought. Peter, whoever that is, killed Sarah as a werewolf the same night that he turned me. Maybe he tried to turn her into a werewolf, and he couldn't. Or maybe he meant to kill her. But this means that your dad is investigating a werewolf murder, not a case of someone setting their dogs loose."

"So whoever turned you is a murderer?"

"Yes," Scott said, shaking his head. "Peter has to be the person who murdered Sarah and turned me."

"Scott, you're not going to – to murder anybody, are you?" Stiles asked, hesitant.

"What? No, of course not. Why would you even ask?"

"You aren't yourself anymore," Stiles said gently. "You're my brother, and I'm here for you no matter what happens. Just tell me you aren't going to try and kill anyone, okay?"

"I'm not going to kill anybody," Scott growled. "But I can't take anymore of this werewolf crap tonight. I'm going to bed, Stiles. I think you should, too. It's going to be a long day tomorrow."


	8. Chapter 7 - The Dubious Quilter

**A/N**: I'm sorry it's been so long since I've had a proper update! I've been beyond busy with my first week of classes coming up next Monday. Hopefully this makes up for it, though!

* * *

"Lydia!" Scott called, waving at her from across the street. She looked up politely, smiling and giving a dismissive wave before continuing her stroll down the street, arm in arm with Katie Phillips. "Lydia, wait!"

"Scott, sweetie, I'm a bit busy at the moment," she said primly, as Katie walked on. "Katie and I are going to a quilting meeting."

"You hate quilting?" he asked, bewildered.

"Is that a question or a statement?" she countered, raising an eyebrow at him.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I wanted to ask you about Peter. If you knew anything more about him."

She turned and started to walk again at her leisurely pace, following Katie toward the small fabric store where they'd be having their meeting. "I don't know," she said simply, twirling her elaborate umbrella. "And even if I did, what good would it be to tell you?"

"So you do know," Scott said with confusion, still following her.

"Scott, if you've got something for me, I've got something for you," she explained, stopping for a moment in front of the store. "If you have something, we can speak later. Why don't you invite your family to dinner at my home? I'm sure we can discuss some more information then. Have something good for me, Scott."

He nodded awkwardly, sighing and turning around. To his surprise, Allison was walking down the street toward his direction. She smiled and waved, grinning, and he responded, before he realized she was talking to Lydia. Embarrassed, he tried to make a quick exit, but Allison stopped him.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked, smiling happily as Lydia wound her arm around Allison's, looking pointedly at Scott.

"Yeah, a little bit," he stammered. "Thanks, Allison. I'll see you tonight, then, Lydia."

"See you tonight," she chirped, waving a dainty goodbye as she and Allison went into the quilting session.

"She hates quilting," he nodded to himself in affirmation, walking back home to try and talk to the Sheriff about the proceeding investigation. Keeping his head down, he kicked at stones in the half-paved road, stepping inside the Sheriff's office beneath their apartment.

"Sheriff?" he called. "Are you there?" There was no response, so he ventured further inside, looking around the office for evidence that he was inside. He was about to give up and go outside when he saw an open report on the sheriff's desk. Looking around, he inched over and glanced at it, wondering if these were the sheriff's findings on Sarah Chamberlain.

"Part of the body found in the northern part of Greenborough Woods," he murmured, his brow creasing with confusion. Sarah had been found in one piece. Did that mean there was someone else out there? He heard the door open and he quickly turned around, pasting on a smile.

"What are you doing in here, Scott?" the sheriff asked, unbuttoning the first few buttons of his shirt and pouring himself a glass of whiskey. Taking a long sip, he stared at his young relative with a searching expression.

"I was looking for you," Scott lied. "Lydia Martin invited us to her house for dinner tonight. The whole family."

"That was nice of her," Sheriff Stilinski nodded, setting down the empty glass. "Want to tell me what you're doing reading my notes?"

Scott flushed, feeling shamed and embarrassed for the second time in quick succession. "I was wanting to know more about Sarah," he admitted.

"This isn't about Sarah, Scott. I don't want you getting involved in this. Whoever did this is a very deranged man. I don't think it's a good idea for anyone to be looking into this that doesn't absolutely have to."

"I know, but-"

"Scott, really," the sheriff said, picking up the file and shutting it in his desk. "That's enough. I don't want you to keep asking about it, okay?"

He nodded, unable to tell the sheriff that he was inextricably involved, since the man who murdered Sarah had also turned him into a werewolf. He quickly exited, walking down to the cobbler to find Stiles. He always picked up an extra shift on Mondays to help out Scott's mom.

"Stiles?" he called, walking inside and looking around.

"What's up, Scott?" he asked, waving at him from behind the counter. He was beating out shoe leather, but he set down the hammer and walked over to see his friend.

"I have two things I have to tell you, and you have to promise not to freak out," Scott warned him.

"Done," Stiles promised far too quickly.

"Okay, I was in your Dad's office and I found his notes. He said they found another body in the north part of the woods."

"But there's no one missing in town," he insisted, taking off his apron and brushing off his shirt.

"I know," Scott said. "But they only found part of the body. I think we should go look for the rest."

"Great idea. Henry gets back in ten minutes, and then he lets me leave. I'll meet you by the house and we can head over there straight away."

"One more thing," Scott said awkwardly. "We have dinner at Lydia's house tonight."

"Please tell me you mean another Lydia and not the Lydia Martin that I've been in love with since she moved here ten years ago?" Stiles looked like he was about to have a breakdown.

"I thought you'd be happy," Scott said, almost panicking. "And you promised not to freak out!"

"I'm not freaking out," Stiles insisted. "I'm just wondering how I'm going to exist at her house. With her there. Having dinner with my family."

"You already said you'd go to the woods to help me look for the body," Scott said, backing away. "You can't go back on that!"

Racing off, he walked to the woods, waiting for a few minutes before deciding to just investigate on his own. Unsure of himself, he began to sniff around the woods, walking toward the North, where the body was found. As he grew closer, he began to smell the same familiar scent of blood he'd picked up when they were searching for Sarah. Somehow, it smelled a bit different – slightly more coppery than Sarah's, with just a scent of wet fur. He wondered if this body was a werewolf's.

Suddenly he heard someone, and he stopped, ducking behind a tree and holding his breath. "Scott, I know you're there," Derek called from a few feet away. "Come out and help me."

"With what?" Scott asked fearfully, worried he'd just been drafted into some horrible werewolf pact.

"I need you to help me bury her," he said, his voice full of sorrow as he pointed at the bottom half of a young woman. "The sheriff took her other half to the mortuary in his office. I doubt they'll release it to me, but I want at least some part of her to bury."

"Right," Scott nodded, as Derek carried what was left of the body back South toward his house, not showing any difficulty with the weight. "Derek, do you know who this is?"

"Of course," he answered. "It's my sister."

Scott was quiet for some time, trying to think of her name. "Laura?" he finally asked, and Derek nodded. "What happened?"

"The alpha that murdered Sarah Chamberlain and turned you killed her," Derek said stiffly. "That's how he got his powers in the first place, if I had to guess."

"What's an alpha?" Scott asked with confusion, trying to keep up with Derek.

"An alpha's another type of werewolf," he explained. "You and me, we're betas."

"What's the difference?" Scott asked, confused. "We're both werewolves, right?"

"Just like a wolf pack, werewolf packs have leaders. An alpha is the leader of a pack. They're stronger and more powerful. The only way you can become an alpha is to take another alpha's life, taking their power. Laura was an alpha. I think that's why he killed her."

"Why'd he turn me, then?" Scott demanded. "I'm not an alpha."

"Obviously," Derek snorted. "Why else, Scott? He wants Betas. He wants a pack. He turned you to increase the size of his pack."

"I'm not joining any pack," he said quickly.

"Go back home, Scott," Derek sighed. "I can dig the grave myself. I don't think I need your help after all." Scott noticed that they were finally at the Hale house. It looked to once be a beautiful and distinguished manor, but now, it was falling to pieces. The windows were blown out, and the top story was partially missing from the fire.

"You still live here?" Scott asked with confusion. "Why?"

"I just came back to Beacon Hills and this is where I wanted to stay. Is that a problem with you, Scott?" he asked sharply. "I think we've had enough questions. I'm going to bury my sister now. Just go home. The full moon's not for another month, so don't bother me about it."

Turning away, he made it clear he was done talking. Setting down his sister, he disappeared into an old tool shed, and soon came back out with a shovel. Glaring at Scott, he stood still until the younger boy moved, turning around and walking down the driveway to the Main Road back to town. Stiles was going to kill him.


	9. Chapter 8 - A Martin Dinner

**A/N: **Two updates in one day? I'm feeling bad about leaving everyone hanging for so long! Enjoy some lovely Stydia awkwardness.

* * *

"Stiles, you're an apprenticed cobbler, aren't you?" Mrs. Martin asked, taking a small bite of roast beef. "I think I've seen you when I've gone down to the shop."

Stiles nodded, his mouth full of food. He awkwardly motioned with his hands until he'd finished chewing, and then responded, "Yes."

"Jackson's working in a newspaper in Boston," Lydia boasted. "He's going to be a sports reporter. Isn't that exciting?"

Stiles frowned, laughing cynically. "Well, one might say that cobbling is a _bit _more helpful than _sports reporting_, but, you know, I'm sure it's not everybody. We need reporters, after all. Just not as much as shoes."

The sheriff snorted, trying to cover it up by finishing his wine. "This is absolutely delicious," he said quickly, pointing at it. "Where'd you pick this up?"

"Jackson got it for us in Boston," Mrs. Martin said graciously. "He's a lovely boy."

"Of course he did," Stiles grumbled, and Scott elbowed him harshly to shut up.

"I love the pot roast," Mrs. McCall told her. "I think it will go wonderfully with the pie I brought."

"We're being treated to one of your famous apple pies?" Mrs. Martin smiled. "How kind of you, Mrs. McCall."

"Well, just think of it as thank you for inviting us to this lovely dinner," she replied, taking a sip of the wine. "Your home is gorgeous, by the way."

They were seated in the main dining room, and it was a sight to behold. The Martins had totally renovated it when they'd first come to town, repainting the entire interior and exterior and importing furniture and art from around the world. Scott had spent the last half hour staring at a swirly painting from France.

"Thank you," Lydia said quickly. Scott noticed her mother look away quickly, as though upset.

Scott could guess why. Lydia's dad was the one who'd engineered all of these changes and renovations, but he'd died two years ago of some strange fever. The town knew everyone was counting on Lydia to marry into another wealthy family to keep her mother afloat.

"How about that pie?" the sheriff said loudly, grabbing the cutting knife and getting everyone slices. The happy chatter resumed quickly, and even Stiles and Lydia seemed to be getting along well.

"Shall we retire to the sitting room?" Mrs. Martin suggested, wiping her mouth with a napkin and standing. They followed her through several lavish hallways before stopping in a large, open room with a few chairs around its edges, leaving the center open.

"Lydia, sweetheart, why don't you show our guests the new dance you learned this week?" Mrs. Martin urged, taking a seat on a dark velvet chaise lounge. "I'm sure they'd love it."

"I'll be your partner," Stiles said quickly, as Scott took a seat next to his mother, who looked excited to watch.

Lydia almost seemed to roll her eyes, but gestured impatiently for Stiles to join her. Though there wasn't any music, she began to step and sway back and forth, muttering comments to Stiles.

"Stop stepping on my feet," she whispered.

"I'm trying, but you keep leading!"

"Of course I'm leading, I'm showing them the dance," she hissed, a smile on her face as she twirled in a circle and returned to Stiles.

"But I'm supposed to lead, Lydia, I'm a man," Stiles explained, as Lydia dipped backward.

When she came back up, she spun away, smirking, and curtsied to the crowd, met with polite but boisterous applause "You wish," she murmured, taking a seat primly by her mother and clasping her hands in her lap.

Mrs. McCall and Mrs. Martin were just beginning to talk about their secret ingredients in cooking when Lydia began to fan herself. "Oh, my, I just need some water. I'm a bit faint from all that spinning." She stood, swaying, and Scott quickly rose, taking her arm.

"I'll take you to the kitchen," he said awkwardly, leading her out of the room.

"What did you learn?" she asked, once they were out of sight.

"I didn't hear anything else from Sheriff Stilinski, but I did see something in his notes. They found another body in the woods. They don't know who it is yet, but it's Laura Hale."

"How do you know?" she demanded.

"I'd rather not say," he told her elusively. "What about you? What do you know about Peter?"

"Katie told me that Sarah was raving about some man from Boston," she whispered confidentially. "I think that's where Peter lives."

"We should check it out," he urged. "Maybe we can find him."

"In all of Boston, are you crazy?" she laughed. "That city's not the size of Beacon Hills, sweetie. I think I won't be making that trip until we know a little bit more about what's going on. Did the same man who killed Sarah kill Laura Hale?"

"Yes, I think so," he nodded. "I'm pretty sure."

"Since you won't tell me how you know, then I'll have to take your word for it," she said, pursing her lips and fanning her face. "But trust me, Scott, if you're not right, I'm going to be _very angry._"

"I know," he said. "I'm right, I promise, but I don't think you'd believe me. This guy was the same person who attacked me, too."

"You seem to know an awful lot for someone who's telling me they don't know what's going on," she accused. "Next time you go on one of these investigative journeys, I want in."

"Lydia, I don't understand," Scott finally said. "Why are you suddenly so interested in finding out what happened?"

"I don't like mysteries that I don't know the answer to, Scott. Do you remember anything about Peter? What he looked like when he attacked you?"

_He was a werewolf,_ Scott thought unhelpfully. "No, not really. It was too dark."

"When you have a clue what he looks like, tell me," she ordered. "We're going to Boston."

"Just us?" he asked, confused and a bit worried that Stiles would literally murder him.

"No, of course not," she snapped. "I'm going with Jackson, and you're going with Allison. Two gentlemen escorting two ladies to town will totally get rid of their suspicion."

"Allison? What makes you think she even wants to go with me?" Scott asked, dumbfounded.

"She told me so, you idiot. Boys. Pay more attention sometime, sweetie." She shook her head and took his arm, fanning herself again as they re-entered the sitting room with innocent smiles on their faces.

* * *

**A/N: **How do you guys like the Scott/Lydia duo? I'm loving this new, badass Lydia, but let me know if you're not feeling their budding friendship.


End file.
